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The morning light filters through the pristine glass of the Mean Bean Coffee Café, but the atmosphere inside is anything but cozy. Agent Stone sits perfectly upright, his spine a rigid line of professional dignity despite the fact that his wrists are currently bound to the rungs of a bistro chair by a pair of standard-issue police handcuffs. He looks at his captor—Green Hills’ own Deputy Wade Whipple—with an expression of strained, polite boredom.
Wade is pacing in a way he clearly thinks is intimidating. He is vibrating with the frantic energy of someone who has watched too many procedural dramas but hasn't quite mastered the "tough guy" baritone. In his right hand, he brandishes a butter knife like it’s a tactical blade.
"I'm done playing games, pal," Wade snaps, spinning around to face Stone. He tries to squint, aiming for a Clint Eastwood glare, but mostly just looks like he’s struggling with a mild headache. "You're gonna tell me what I want to know. And I am asking you for the last time."
Stone raises an eyebrow, his eyes flicking down to the dull, rounded edge of the butter knife and then back up. He remains unthreatened, mostly because he knows Wade is more likely to accidentally butter his own thumb than inflict a wound. Wade lunges for the counter and snatches up a ceramic plate. On it sits a bagel that is suspiciously perfect—too symmetrical, too glossy, and entirely devoid of scent.
He thrusts it toward Stone’s face. "What would you like on your bagel? Cream cheese? Chives? The truth?!"
Stone sighs, the sound of a man who has calculated the exact trajectory of his life and found it currently lacking. "I'm not telling you anything, Wade," he says, his voice smooth and weary. "And for the love of all things culinary, please put that down. That is a display bagel. It's made of high-density foam and acrylic sealant."
Wade freezes, his jaw dropping as he stares at the bagel. "I don't get it with you!" he bursts out, gesturing wildly with the butter knife. "I mean, I've tried everything! I was good cop. I was bad cop. I was 'cop who offers you a breakfast bread.' And nothing! You’re like a vault, man. A very handsome, very well-dressed vault." Wade looks back at the bagel, his hunger momentarily overriding his police training. He’s been on this "interrogation" for forty minutes, and his blood sugar is plummeting. "It can’t be that fake," he mutters.
Before Stone can shout a warning, Wade leans in and tries to sink his teeth into the prop. Crrr-ack.
"That... is a display bagel," Wade wheezes, clutching his jaw. "Wow. That’s really deceptive marketing."
Before Stone can offer a sarcastic retort, the café’s internal temperature drops ten degrees. The hum of the refrigeration units escalates into a high-pitched whine that rattles the espresso cups on the shelves. Suddenly, the overhead lights don't just flicker—they ignite with a violent, toxic green radiance.
The air in the center of the room tears open with a discharge of emerald electricity. Static raises the hair on Stone’s arms. Out of the shimmering distortion, a figure emerges, levitating several feet off the checkered floor. It is Ivo Robotnik, but not as Stone last saw him. He is draped in an ethereal, pulsing green glow, his eyes glowing like radioactive coals, and jagged bolts of Chaos energy dancing across his iconic red flight suit.
Stone’s heart does a frantic, practiced leap in his chest. His pupils dilate, and for a moment, the handcuffs are forgotten. "Doctor! You're here!"
The Doctor doesn't descend. He drifts closer, his movements fluid and ghostly. When he speaks, his voice is no longer just a sharp, frantic staccato; it’s layered with a digital resonance, a metallic vibration that sounds like a synthesizer screaming in harmony.
"Yes, I'm here… and yet I'm… not all there," Robotnik intones. He tilts his head, the green light casting long, villainous shadows against the coffee machines.
Stone’s admiration is momentarily eclipsed by a flicker of genuine concern. He leans forward as much as the restraints allow. "Sir? Are you feeling okay? You’re... glowing. More than usual."
"I'm more than okay, Stone. I'm upgraded," Robotnik declares. He sweeps his hand through the air, and with a series of digital bloop-bleeps, translucent neon buttons materialize in the empty space before him. He taps them with a manic flair, and a heavy, bass-boosted beat begins to thrum through the café’s speakers. "Sinister 3.0. My game is next le~vel."
In a flash of green light so bright that Wade has to shield his eyes, Robotnik vanishes. A millisecond later, Stone feels a sudden, chilling presence directly behind his chair. He can feel the heat of the Chaos energy radiating off the Doctor’s cloak.
Robotnik leans down, his face inches from Stone’s ear. "Hi," he whispers, his voice dropping into a register that is terrifyingly intimate. "I can smell the electricity in your brain, Stone. It’s humming a very... loyal tune."
Stone’s breath hitches. He’s used to the Doctor’s eccentricities, but this new, omnipotent confidence is doing things to his pulse rate that he’ll have to log in his journal later. Robotnik’s glowing eyes then snap toward Wade, who is still standing there holding the butter knife and the bitten foam bagel. The Doctor’s expression shifts instantly from flirtatious to utter, soul-withering deadpan.
"You," Robotnik says to Wade. "You smell like a snack plate. Processed meats and desperation."
Wade, surprisingly, doesn't look offended. He actually looks a bit thoughtful, nodding slowly. "Yeah, no, that's fair. I had a couple of those Lunchables today. The ham and Swiss ones. They're efficient."
The Doctor doesn't respond with words. He teleports again, appearing instantly in Wade’s personal space. With a sneer of pure, unfiltered hatred, he snatches the foam bagel out of Wade's hand.
"Sit. Down," Robotnik commands. The sheer weight of the Chaos energy in his voice forces Wade’s knees to buckle slightly. "In. The. Chair."
Robotnik flicks his fingers toward Stone. The handcuffs don't just unlock; they disintegrate into metallic dust, falling harmlessly to the floor. Stone stands up immediately, smoothing out his apron and adjusting his tie, his eyes never leaving his Master. Wade, realizing he is outmatched by several orders of magnitude and a literal demigod, scampers into the chair Stone just vacated. With another flick of Robotnik’s wrist, the dust on the floor reforms into heavy, reinforced steel shackles that snap shut around Wade’s wrists.
"I didn't know," Wade stammers, looking up at the glowing madman. "'Cause he... 'cause he was in the chair, so I didn't think... I mean, I was just trying to do a bagel-based interrogation, it’s a standard technique in the manual..."
Robotnik ignores the deputy entirely. He drifts toward Stone, his levitation bringing them eye-to-eye. The green aura softens slightly, turning a shade closer to mint than poison. He reaches out a gloved hand, hovering it just near Stone’s cheek, the static electricity making Stone’s skin tingle.
"Are you quite alright, Aban?" Robotnik asks, his voice cooing with a possessive, sharp-edged tenderness. "Did the rotund policeman harm you? Did he use that... primitive spreading tool on your person?"
Stone looks at the Doctor, seeing the frantic, jealous protection hidden beneath the god-like exterior. He offers a small, devoted smile. "No, Sir. I was perfectly fine. Just waiting for your inevitable return."
Robotnik’s mustache twitches as he scowls over Stone’s shoulder at Wade. "Shame," the Doctor hisses, his fingers sparking with emerald fire. "I would have loved to deliver retribution. I’ve been practicing my 'smite' animations all morning."
He turns back to Stone, the green glow flaring up again. "Now, Stone. Make me a latte. A transcendent latte. I have a world to subjugate, and I refuse to do it on an empty stomach."
"Of course, Doctor," Stone says, already moving toward the espresso machine with a renewed spring in his step. "Right away."